


Half a Sin

by therestlessbrook



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Drama & Romance, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-16 21:37:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17553668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therestlessbrook/pseuds/therestlessbrook
Summary: She takes a few steps closer to the cell bars. Her hands are unbound, but she can imagine how she looks: she hasn’t showered in five days, has been peeing in a bucket, and any sleep has consisted of stolen moments. Frank’s index finger twitches spasmodically, and she glances at it, rather than his face.“I see you found a new career,” she murmurs.A hoarse scoff. It sounds almost like a laugh. “Yeah. Keeping your ass out of the fire might prove to be a full-time job.”Or, Karen investigates an illegal fighting ring and is kidnapped for her troubles. Frank enters the tournament to get her out.





	Half a Sin

**Author's Note:**

> What can I say? I binge-watched Daredevil & the Punisher in a week and so here we are.

Her wrists are rubbed raw by the fourth day.

She keeps chafing at her restraints, tugging and twisting, even when blood trickles down her fingers. There’s a burning anger low in her belly—some for her captors, most of herself. She was careless, and now she’s watching one of her own stories play out before her.

The ring is crudely devised of sheet metal and barbed wire. The floor is covered in wooden chips—all the better to clean out the blood. Karen sits on a metal folding chair, the only kind in the arena. Her hands are bound before her, and with every breath, she can taste the violence in the air. Sweet and fresh wood chips and something she can’t quite identify. Her captor’s cologne, perhaps.

Knight sits beside her. She hates that his surname sounds like something out of a fairytale; she grew up thinking of knights in shining armor and quests and legends—and perhaps she believes a little in them, still. People in masks, going about saving people. And people who do so without masks.

She closes her eyes, fights back another swell of emotion. She hates the feeling of helplessness; she hates being put on display like a prize to be won; most of all, she hates knowing that the people looking for her are probably desperate by now. Ellison will be frantically trying to retrace her research into the underground fighting ring. Foggy will probably be trying to use all of his resources at that fancy new law firm. As for Matt—well, she doesn’t know what he’s doing. Listening. Beating the shit out of every lowlife he can find.

“Stop struggling sweetheart,” Knight murmurs. He’s not a large man, but he carries himself with the kind of confidence that makes people cower. He sits beside her, his chair made of carved wood. One hand rests on the armrest and the other indolently toys with a heavy diamond ring. Around and around, she watches the metal glint.

She knows why she’s here—she’s stakes. The winner of this week-long tournament will walk away rich. And also with her. “It’s only fair,” said Knight, when she was first brought to him. He pulled the hood from her, and smiled like she were a wrapped Christmas present. “You almost took down the whole operation with your little articles.”

All around her are those betting on the matches. There’s a wild energy to the crowd, a ferocity that only increases with every night’s fight.

“Tonight,” says the announcer, “we have our champion. Please, welcome to the ring—Wheeler!”

She knows Wheeler; she’s seen him fight three nights in a row and win every single time. He’s got the build of well-fed bulldog. He steps into the ring with a smirk, raising a hand to the crowd.

“And our new contender!”

The new man that steps into the ring has dark hair. He’s not overly tall—perhaps two inches under six feet. His hair is dark, curling a little at the ends, and his beard is neatly clipped.

Even so, she would know him anywhere. She last saw him on a roof, sniper rifle in hand, peering down at her with an unreadable expression.

She draws in a sharp breath. Her lips silently form his name.

_Frank?_

It isn’t much of a fight.

She watches as Frank Castle dismantles Wheeler in about two minutes. When the other man is carried away—unconscious, she thinks, not dead—Franks stands in the center of the ring, knuckles bloodied and chest heaving. “Well, well,” Knight says, with that lazy confidence, “looks like the betting pools are about to change.” He twitches a finger, and Karen is hauled to her feet.

She’ll be taken back to her cell for the rest of the night. That’s how this always works—she’s there for the fights, but she’s kept from everyone else.

“Can’t have our goods damaged,” Knight explained, that first day.

She throws one last look at the ring before a guard hauls her away.

What she sees is Frank’s gaze, unwaveringly on her.

* * *

The last time they spoke, it was in a forest. She screamed at him, said that if he killed another man, Frank would be dead to her, as well. And then she heard the gunshot, and it felt like something cracked within her. It felt like losing Frank—and she regretted her words. She remembers sitting in her broken carseat, surrounded by shattered glass, wondering if she would ever see him again.

On the fifth day of her captivity, she does see him again.

Frank walks down the warehouse hallway, a guard at his back. 

“—No touching,” the man is saying. “Knight’s orders. Only the winner gets—”

“Got it,” says Frank curtly. “I just want to look, all right? See if all of this fuss is really worth it.”

The guard gives him a sour look, but he walks back to the end of the corridor. He carries a gun, like all of the other security men here. Frank is unarmed—but she knows how little that matters.

She takes a few steps closer to the cell bars. Her hands are unbound, but she can imagine how she looks: she hasn’t showered in five days, has been peeing in a bucket, and any sleep has consisted of stolen moments. Frank’s index finger twitches spasmodically, and she glances at it, rather than his face.

“I see you found a new career,” she murmurs, so the guards won’t hear.

A hoarse scoff. It sounds almost like a laugh. “Yeah. Keeping your ass out of the fire might prove to be a full-time job.”

Her eyes come up and meet his. For all that he was in a fight only a few hours ago, he looks… good. The beard suits him, helps soften the hard lines of his face. And for once, he’s not bruised.

“How…?” she begins to say, then doesn’t know how to continue.

“I got word,” he replies, also quiet. “Couldn’t just storm the place, not without risking you, too. So I had to come in as a contender.”

Her hands settle on the bars. “Frank.” She doesn’t know what else to say. That coming here was foolish? That she’s so glad to see him? That she wishes she could take back those harsh words in the woods, because he is not the monster here.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “I know. We’re done. But I couldn’t—I couldn’t just leave you here, in this shithole. And you don’t have to—”

“It wasn’t about you,” she says.

Frown lines appear between his brows. “What?”

The words spill out of her. She’s raw with exhaustion. “That night—it wasn’t about you. God. I’m sorry. I just, it wasn’t about you.”

It never had been. That’s what she’s come to understand in the last few months.

His fingers settle on hers. It’s a light touch, but such a welcome one. She hasn’t felt anything other than unwanted grabs and shoves for five days. And even before that—how long has it been since anyone just touched her? Matt, probably. A hug here, a held hand there.

Frank’s thumb moves in gentle circles on the back of her hand. “What was it about, then?” he asks voice so low she can barely make out the words. “Whose ghosts were you talking to?”

Karen likes to think she built herself from the ground up—she has orchestrated her own successes, her own failures. She is in control. But those few times that control slipped from her, that it was wrenched from her hands…

“Ghosts that exist because of me.”

She sees the moment he understands.

And he _does_ understand.

“Christ,” he murmurs. “You weren’t kidding about almost taking the shot, were you?” But there’s no judgement in his voice; there never has been. To her horror, a sob rises in her chest and she has to choke it back. She’s just so damned tired and dirty, and she wants out of here.

“Hey, hey,” he says, and his grip tightens on her hands. “Look at me, Karen. Look at me.”

She looks at him. His eyes are large and dark, and she can see the glimmer of blonde reflected in them.

“You like pancakes?” he asks.

It’s such an odd little question that she laughs, if only a little. “What?”

“I want some,” he says, with all seriousness. “We’ll find some hole in the wall, and you can tell me whatever secrets you’ve buried. Or not—it’s up to you.” He leans in closer. “Point is, we’re not dying down here. Got it?” The last two sentences are uttered with a ring of command, and for the first time, she sees the kind of leader he must have been. Once upon a time.

He steps back, gives her one last nod, then strides back down the dirty hallway.

“She pretty enough for you?” the guard asks, with a leer.

Frank doesn’t pause; he just slams his fist into the wall beside the guard’s ear. The other man flinches hard.

“Get something for her damned wrists,” Frank snarls. “I don’t want her dying of some infection before the tournament’s over.”

The guard looks more than a little unnerved. It’s rather satisfying.

* * *

On that fifth night, Karen watches Frank fight again.

It’s a more difficult fight this time. She’s not sure if the fighter is ex-military, but he’s some kind of professional. He and Frank circle one another long enough that the spectators are rattling at the barbed wire and screaming for blood by the time the first blow lands. There’s a rhythm to this fight that the first one lacked; both competitors know the dance and all of its steps. Frank isn’t a showy fighter—not like Matt. There are no flips or graceful kicks. Frank’s punches and jabs are meant to conserve energy, to take out his opponent with the least amount of drama.

His enemy is the same, and it makes for a brutal match.

Karen winces when Frank’s head is slammed into the ground, and she thinks his skull might have cracked if not for the bark chips softening the blow. Blood flows down his cheek, gets into his mouth, stains his teeth crimson. He breaks the other man’s ribs with a kick, and Karen thinks she might hear the crack even above the screaming the crowd.

The other man smiles with all of his teeth, and then Karen sees the metal between his fingers. A knife. He snuck a knife into the arena.

Or perhaps someone let him—someone betting on him.

It feels like Karen’s blood has iced over. She cannot move; she cannot help. She can only watch—and she hates it.

The knife flashes through the air, and Frank lunges out of its path, falling into an easy roll and coming up into a spring. He slams into the other man with a howl of rage, throwing him to the ground. He pins the man’s arm, then presses on his wrist in such a way that his opponent screams in pain. The knife falls from his hand.

Frank keeps punching until the other man has gone utterly still.

Karen isn’t sure if he’s alive or not. She’s not sure she wants to know.

When he comes to her cell after the match, he’s made an effort to wash the blood from his hair and beard. He looks like a feral cat that someone tried to bathe—damp and furious, prowling down the hall with such ferocity that even her guard doesn’t try to stop him. “Just don’t touch her, all right?” says the guard. “I’ve got a bet on you for tomorrow and I’d hate to shoot you.”

Frank gives him a dark glance, then walks to the bars.

She steps closer, hand hovering over his head wound, then falling back to her side. 

Even so, it’s him that says quietly, “You all right?”

She shakes her head. “Frank.”

It feels like all she says here is his name—and every time it means something new. A plea, an apology, and this time, gentle rebuke.

His mouth tightens. “Don’t worry about me.”

“You’re still bleeding,” she says. It’s true; fresh blood is leaking from his scalp.

“Miss Page.” His mouth curls at the edges. “You’ve seen me look much worse than this.”

And while that’s true, it’s still not reassuring. “What if another one sneaks in a weapon?”

“Then I’ll deal with them, too.”

She wraps her hands around the bars, leans into them. She can feel his breath against her cheek. “Don’t die for this, Frank. If you have to get out—just get out.”

For the first time since they’ve reunited, she sees his anger directed at her. “What’d you just say?”

“Frank—”

“Because it sounded like you think I should just leave you here.” His own hands are tight on the bars; he looks as if he’d like to rend them apart with his bare hands. “And I am going to say this one, and only once, so you listen: fuck, no. I am not—I will not—” He shifts on his feet, restless and furious. He looks as if he’d like to pace, but he forces himself to remain still. His voice lowers to a whisper. “You think you’re not worth it? You think I’d be better off slinking into the night, going back to a city without you in it?” His voice is rough, but suddenly there’s an undercurrent of pleading. “Don’t make me do that, Karen. Don’t think you can make me do that. Because I’d rather let some asshole spill my guts into that arena.”

She has nothing to say to that, so she doesn’t.

His breathing is uneven when he steps away from the cell and walks out of sight. She can only watch him, stomach tight with fear and something she can’t quite put her finger on.

* * *

The sixth night, Frank kills three people.

Two of them are guards—who attack him before the match. They put money on the other guy. Karen only knows this because Frank’s a bloody mess when he walks into the arena.

His new opponent is a burly man at least a foot taller than him. He throws heavy punches at Frank, who blocks on his forearms and manages to kick the other man’s knee out from under him. The other man bashes his forehead into Frank’s face, breaking his nose. Then he tries to get Frank on the floor, to pin him.

The fight ends with a grab to other man’s throat; Frank throws a heavy punch and breaks something. Karen isn’t well-versed enough in anatomy to know. But the man dies, and new bark chips are spread across the arena.

 That night, he comes to her cell again, but this time neither of them say a word.

She reaches through the bars and rests her hand on the back of his neck. It’s the only place she can find that isn’t stained. He leans in, forehead gently resting against the bars. He is shaking with exhaustion and probably blood loss. And this is all she can offer him—a few moments of quiet. He killed someone for her. Has killed several people now—and will probably kill more. And she wants to tell him to stop, that she isn’t worth all of this, but she knows he won’t hear it.

When the guards snap at him to go back to his own room, he steps back, his eyes never leaving Karen.

* * *

The final night, it is Knight who comes for her. He is smiling, all breeze and confidence, as he orders the guards to take Karen to the showers. “Want her looking pretty for the final match,” he says. “Can’t have our champion being disappointed now, can we?”

So she’s forced to strip and shower—it looks like some kind of gym set-up, with communal showers and sinks along the wall. She is too grimy to truly care about her nudity, and when the guards bring her fresh clothing, doesn’t even care that there’s no bra or panties. She pulls on the dress— a flimsy little thing that looks more like negligee than a true garment.

Her wrists are put in cuffs again, and she’s led to the arena. Her appearance is greeted with a few catcalls and ugly smiles. The crowd’s blood is up; their reigning champion is here to defend his title in the final match. Frank walks into the arena. His face has that broken-nose bruise across it again, extending below his eyes and across his cheeks. His nose has been taped, at the very least.

When he glances over and sees her, his face hardens. She sees that spark of fury ignite within him; his index finger taps out a rhythm on his thigh. He rolls his shoulders, feet easing into a wide, familiar stance.

The second man that walks into the arena is small and wiry. He looks like a gymnast, like a nice guy who could be fun on a blind date. He’s smiling broadly at Frank, as if this is just a social call. Frank merely narrows his eyes.

The bell rings out, and Frank flies at him. The other man steps aside, lets Frank pass by, then flies into action. He is fast—so fast that she can’t keep up with his movements. He strikes with the rapidity of her racing heart—one blow after another, after another. Frank is forced to defend, catching a few hits on his shoulder, ducking beneath another, and striking aside another hit so he can throw a fist into the man’s solar plexus.

But rather than recoil, the smaller man hangs on. He takes hold of Frank’s wrist and slams his hand into the crook of his elbow—there’s something there, and Karen can’t quite see it, not until the light catches on the needle. It falls to the bark chip floor, small and unnoticeable.

_Fuck._

The man is smiling broader still when Frank throws a volley of punches at his face. He weaves through the blows, taking one harmlessly on his own arm before rolling aside. He jabs an elbow into Frank’s lower back, then kicks at his ankle, sending Frank off balance.

Frank is blinking hard now, as if the world is suddenly too bright.

And Karen is utterly terrified—not for herself, but for him. He’s been dosed with something, and no one either noticed or even cares. He’s going to die out there, fighting for her, and she’s not sure she can bear it.

So she does the only thing she can think of. She looks down at her cuffed wrists, then at Knight. His face is on the arena—all rapt excitement.

Karen throws herself at him, wraps the chains of her cuffs around his throat and pulls tight as she can. She feels his body against hers, bucking in surprise and pain, but she clings on. He snarls, and she wonders if this was how that cop felt, when he tried to kill her in that prison cell.

The arena abruptly goes silent. She can’t see much over Knight’s broad shoulder, and all she can smell and taste is his cologne. His nails are raking at her arms, but his struggles are slowing.

“Back the fuck off,” she snarls at an approaching guard.

Knight’s hand waves in the air; he cannot speak, but his meaning is clear. The guard backs off.

She struggles to her feet, dragging Knight along with her. She’s not that strong but she’s all adrenaline and fury—and more than that, she just doesn’t care. She doesn’t care what injuries she incurs trying to do this, what pain will be inflicted later. All she knows is this ends here and now.

“Let him out of the ring,” she snaps and nods at Frank.

Someone hesitates, then moves toward the barbed wire ring. It is pulled free, and then Frank is there, unsteady but with a fierce pride in his eyes. He has a gun. She’s not sure where he got the gun—perhaps he grabbed it off a guard in the commotion. “Easy, easy,” he murmurs, and she’s not sure if he’s speaking to Knight or her. Together, they edge toward the door, half-dragging Knight with them. When she’s figures it’s close enough, she unhooks the cuffs from around Knight’s throat and knees him hard in the back. He falls, spitting and snarling, to the ground.

That’s when all hell breaks loose.

The guards run at him; Frank puts down three in a matter of moments with his stolen gun, and then they’re both running—her bare feet slamming into the concrete, his arm around her waist, the unsteady sound of his breathing. She can hear the pursuit, the gunshots and the screams, but neither of them look back. She doesn’t know the way out of the warehouse, but Frank does. Together, they sprint out onto a parking lot—and she doesn’t recognize that, either. “This way,” Frank says, and his words are beginning to slur. But he keeps pace when they race toward a truck.

The keys are still in the ignition. Karen helps heave Frank into the passenger seat and then she twists the ignition, slamming her foot to the gas. The truck lurches, and then they’re driving away—just away. She’s not sure where they’re going. All of the buildings are unfamiliar, and dark, and she dares not stop.

So she simply drives and drives.

* * *

By the time dawn breaks across the sky, they’re at a campground.

Frank is still a little groggy, so it’s Karen who drives into the woods and leaves the truck there. Frank does away with the handcuffs. They find the campground’s water faucet, and she rinses her hands and arms before turning her attention to Frank. She rubs a streak of dried blood from his ear with her thumb, and he doesn’t seem to notice what she’s doing. His hands settle on her shoulders.

For a few more moments, they still don’t talk. Then Frank murmurs, “I don’t think I’ve seen a more beautiful sight than you strangling that asshole.”

That startles her into laughing, which in turn, makes a smile crease across his face.

“Well,” she says, “I couldn’t let you have all the fun.”

Perhaps later, she’ll tell him how scared she was for him—how she truly thought for a few seconds that she was going to watch him die. And she couldn’t bear it, not after the docks. Not after she lost Matt to his vigilante life and Foggy to his new job. She can’t lose Frank, too.

“Come on,” he says. His hand falls to her back, and the warm weight of it settles her.

They find a motel nearby—for those who don’t wish to camp. Karen is the one to get the room; even if she looks like a half-naked hooker, it’s still better than Frank’s bruised and possibly recognizable face. She uses a credit card that Frank gives her—and it’s probably stolen, but she can’t bring herself to care.

When they’re in the room, the door locked behind them and a chair wedged beneath the knob, she finally sits on the bed and lets some of the fear bleed out of her. Frank’s making a cup of coffee and muttering about the quality.

She takes the first shower—and he the second. Then she watches as he stitches a small wound closed on his shoulder with a motel sewing kit. He declines her offer of help, though she does make him another cup of coffee.

Then they’re both lying on the king-sized bed, and Karen thinks she could sleep for a month.

“So,” says Frank. His voice is even rougher than usual. “You still planning to write another article about illegal fighting rings?”

She covers her eyes with her elbow. “God. I can’t even think about that right now.”

“Good. At least you have some survival instincts.”

She rolls onto her side, so she can face him. “That makes one of us.”

He’s propped himself up on several pillows, so he can breathe through his mouth. “I wasn’t going to leave you there, Karen,” he says. His voice lowers. “Everyone already thinks I’m dead, and I may as well be. But you—“ He closes his eyes. “World’s lost enough good people.”

She exhales. “Don’t—don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Put me on a pedestal. I’m not some saint.”

He looks as if he’d like to snort, but his broken nose pains him too much. “If you were, you’d be a lot less interesting.” His eyes slide down her—taking her in. And again, she remembers she’s wearing little more than slip—and nothing beneath it. There’s hair on her bare legs, and she feels raw and unarmored. With anyone else, she’d be cringing away, trying to cover herself. But there’s no judgement in Frank’s face. And it feels as if he’s looking past her bedraggled state and seeing her. Just her.

Frank says, “All right, then. _I’ve_ lost enough people. Didn’t want to add you to the list.”

She never thought of herself as someone Frank Castle could lose. But then again, she never thought of herself as someone who could choke a man with a pair of handcuffs.

She’s learning all sorts of things today.

“You should get some rest,” he says. “Call your lawyer friends, get them to come pick you up. I’ll stick around for a while, but then I should keep moving.”

She isn’t sure why she does it—it just feels right to reach out and place her palm on his chest. He goes still beneath her, and she realizes that he’s probably just as starved for touch as she is, if not more. She doesn’t try to do anything else; she just keeps her hand there, above his heart. “Frank,” she says. “I don’t want to lose you, either.”

A series of emotions flash across his face, gone quickly. Then he simply nods.

She gets beneath the bedcovers; he remains above them. But they share that bed, close enough that she can feel the warmth of his body. She curls toward him, fingers clasped lightly in the sheets.

As she falls asleep, she feels the gentle weight of his hand on hers. They fall asleep like that—one point of connection at their fingertips, and the world quiet all around them.

* * *

When Karen wakes, she’s alone. It’s not surprising. There’s a voicemail flashing on the motel phone, and when she listens to it, she realizes that Frank went ahead and left an anonymous message with Foggy’s secretary. He’s on his way.

There’s a heavy jacket left beside her on the bed—black, of course. She reaches down, touches the worn edge of the sleeve. When she digs her fingers into the pockets, she finds a note written on the motel stationary.

_We’ll get those pancakes someday._


End file.
